


And It Started To Rain

by hatwall



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dadza, Death, Evil Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, Just sad in general, Killing, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Pain, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Hybrid Technoblade, Revenge, Sad Ending, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), its just pain, like none of it has anything to do with what is happening right now on the smp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatwall/pseuds/hatwall
Summary: Fear a peaceful man who goes to war.But also fear the man whose sons you just kidnapped. And fear when that man has nothing left to lose.This is strictly about the character and not about the actual content creators. If this crosses any of their boundaries, it will be immediately taken down. Respect people's boundaries.This also has nothing to do with any of the other stories about the Dream SMP that I am writing. This is just a one-shot that my brain demanded be written. Enjoy!
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	And It Started To Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up today and chose violence.

Phil leaned ruffled his feathers a little, letting the droplets of blood fall off of them. Mobs littered the ground around him, a sickly dark blue from the zombies, bone matter, and weird red from the spiders. It stained his green and white coat, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. The sword shook a little in his hands. Nerves and adrenaline coursed through his body, only becoming noticeable through this moment of quiet.

There was still a swirl of angry purple clouds above him. Black obsidian surrounded him at all sides, the overwhelming heat of the Nether sinking into him, draining him of all energy. The tall black tower in front of him was daunting. Sharp angles that showed the tiers of the inside. A dark shadow cast on everything in front of him. It was intimidating, to say the least.

If Phil had just been exploring the Nether on his own, he would have avoided it at all costs. No matter what kind of treasure was in there, it was not worth going through the hassle of trying to navigate it, not to mention trying to fight all of the creatures he was sure were in there.

With a sigh, Phil flipped his sword until it rested on his shoulder, and started walking towards the entrance.

This was not normal circumstances. This was not him just exploring the Nether on his own. This was different. This was so much different.

There was no door at the entrance of the tower. There was a bedrock garden that surrounded it, making bridges and paths over stagnant pools of lava. Arches every once in a while, leading right to a giant opening in the tower, intricately decorated with black obsidian to contract with the Redstone background, gold nuggets ordained every once in a while. A culmination of everything that the Nether had in it.

Phil looked at it with disgust, before starting to move in.

The inside had a large, sweeping main hall, a single strip of red carpet down the center of each one. A split spiral staircase at the end of it, with arches on either side. The ceiling was high. High enough to hold an extremely large crystal chandelier. The entire thing shimmered from the enterally burning torch lights around it, casting odd shadows and rainbows on the nearby walls.

It was the ugliest thing that Phil had ever seen. The large gray feathers on his wings started to puff up from irritation from just looking at it. He wanted to chop it down. He wanted to see the ‘perfect’ crash against the stone floor and break into so many pieces. To hear the sound of it breaking.

He kept walking. Up the stairs. There was only one door, the one at the very top, before the stairs split to get to the balcony. A large metal door. Much more bleak than the rest of the room. Simple. Metal. Cold. A single ring door handle being the only thing that decorated it.

Phil grabbed it, pulling it open. It groaned under the sudden motion.

A single spiral of stairs was in front of him. Going up. Only up. And that was it cold, with flickering lights on going all the way up. The only way to go was up.

So Phil started to climb. One foot in front of the other, his wooden shoes clicking against the stone as he kept going, his sword held tight in his hand.

A giant metal door in front of him. A single hoop handle. Phil tugged at it, swinging the door open.

A long hallway was beyond it. Gold arches leading through it, with the same red carpet stripe going all the way down the center of it.

Blood. Blood was everything. Various colors of the different mob corpses that were scattered all around. And, in the center of the room, a heap of red cloth, red smirks leading to the body, lay someone. Pink hair pooling under his head, a golden crown, once sat proudly on top of his head, now lay discarded off to the side. A broken sword, once held by a warrior off to the side, no longer had any power flowing through it after it had been dropped.

Phil ran to his son. Panic started to well up in his chest. Begging, pleading to anyone near him. Please, just let him be alive. There was no slow rise and fall of his chest as Phil slid next to him. Rolling Technoblade onto his back.

His eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. Hints of red drained from them. The same red that overtook his eyes when he was fighting. When he was in a serious fight. When he was fighting for his life. They were glassed over. His mouth opened, blood dripping out of it. His tusks are broken, chipped where he had gently placed golden rings around them. His tall standing pig ears, with pieces of jewelry stuck in them, floppy and down.

He looked so scared. Looking up into nothing. Looking beyond Phil, his father, as he tried to feel for a heartbeat in his piglin son's chest. Desperately putting his hand against the piglin hybrids chest, trying to feel for something, anything.

Nothing.

Phil scrambled to put a hand on his wrist.

Nothing.

He was so very still. It was unsettling.

Phil gathered the boy into his arms. His head lulled to the side, making it difficult for Phil to get a good grip, holding the piglin close to his chest, letting his long, now matted pink hair flow behind him.

He was completely limp in Phil’s arms. Completely relaxed, floppy and lifeless, the unnatural warmth of his piglin skin started to drain out of him, leaving behind a cold, cold corpse of the brave warrior that had once stood tall above all. 

“No,” Phil whispered, pulling his son closer to himself. “No this isn’t right.”

A gaping hole in his stomach, where the blood had been drained out of him. It looked torn, like he had pushed himself to keep going even after the wound was made, stretching it further. Blood slowly trickled from off of his fingertips from cuts on his arms. A large pool of blood below him, staining Phil’s pants from kneeling in it. He lost his life-fighting.

It was the way he would have wanted to go.

That did not stop Phil from screaming.

Gathering his son up in his arms, feeling how limp, and lose it was as he did. Holding his head close to his chest as tears fell out of his eyes. The crushing reality that was never going to see his son again. He would never be able to hear those harsh syllables of piglin speak that would sometimes slip into his speaking. His dry humor. The way he let Wilbur braid his hair.

Wilbur…

Tommy…

Phil gently laid his fallen son on the ground. Setting his head onto the stone floor, before closing the eyes. He looked asleep. A piece of Phil wanted to believe that that was true.

The smarter part of him knew that that was a dangerous lie to tell himself.

He pulled the red, blood-stained cloak across the hybrid's face, covering it completely, before placing the broken blade on his chest.

Fury boiled in Phil’s mind as he looked at the body of his dead son, barely able to register the tears that were falling down his face.

He let the anger overtake him. There would be time to mourn later. For now, he had other sons to save. So he pressed on.

Following the red carpet to the end of the hall, where two tall golden doors stood. Phil gripped his sword, letting his teeth grind together while he looked up. His mind was starting to cloud with fury, the righteous fury of a father who had already lost too much as it was.

With a push from the door, they swung open, and Phil spread his wings, letting himself slip into a defensive position.

It was a large throne room, with golden steps leading up to a giant golden throne, with red cushioning. There were intricate carvings all over it, with a large crystal star placed at the very top. White marble pillars lined the very edges of the room, with wooden walls beyond that, unseeable through the shadows of the pillars. The red carpet continued. Right to a man standing at the very bottom of the steps. In complete enchanted netherite armor, with a white smiling mask covering his face, a forest green hood over most of his hair, with little tuffs of brown sticking out at the front. His hand extended, holding a boy up by his throat, while he kicked to try to touch the floor. Under one of the masked man's feet was another man, blood-stained brown coat draped over his shoulders. His face being squished into the floor by his boot, while his chest struggled to take in a breath, desperately trying to reach for the red-shirted child above him, a feeble attempt to try to help. Knowing that his fallen brother could have done a better job, but refusing to give up.

“Oh~, look who showed up?” Dream smirked, still holding Tommy out at arm's length. “You know, if you had just listened to me, none of this would have happened. But they had to go and be heroes. Had to follow this fucking idiot into battle. You want to know how Technoblade died? Trying to protect this piece of…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Phil said, his body shaking with rage, barely able to contain it.

“My best adversary,” Dream continued, “dead. For such a pathetic cause. Oh well. At least I get to see the life drain from your eyes.”

Phil’s body jerked into action. He ran. He ran. He had to get there. He had to. He had to save them. He….

A snapping noise echoed through the chamber. As Tommy’s head sunk to the side, life draining from his eyes in an instant, his face still wet with tears, terror, and guilt.

Someone was screaming. He could see Wilbur’s mouth open, tears streaming down his face, but all he could hear was a pounding in his ears.

Dream reeled back his arm, before throwing the body of his youngest son at Phil. In A second he had gently caught the boy in his arms, using his wings to balance himself as he landed.

It was so much worse up close. To see the clear snap-in Tommy’s neck, head lulled to the side, too much like Techno’s. Body limp in his arms. He was so still. He was not supposed to be still. He was a hyper, obnoxious kid who annoyed his brothers to no end, creating mischief. And now he was here. Dead.

He wanted to mourn. He wanted to gather the bodies of his sons and cry, and break, and shatter himself into pieces for failing them. But the winged man stopped. Forcing himself to put the body down, just as gently as he had with Techno, placing his own cloak over the body.

There was one left. He was fucking save one.

His piercing blue eyes trained up to Dream. The masked man was behind Wilbur, holding a blade to his neck as Wilbur screamed, trying to thrash against his grip, to get to his younger brother. To do something.

“And then there was one,” Dream said.

A clean cut. Across Wilubur’s throat, blood immediately started to pour out.

Phil found himself behind Dream, a loud _crack_ echoing through the golden room, as his sword passed all the way through the netherite armor, through the demigod's chest, and out the other side.

A beating heart slowed around the blade, bleeding out into his chest, filling it with blood while the organ tried to keep itself going, sealing its fate the harder it worked.

Phil kept the sword there. He did not move it, until Dream laid limp on the metal, dripped Wilbur and his sword to the ground, filling the empty space with horrendous sounds of a dead body hitting the ground.

And so Phil stood. In a Nether Fortress of blood. A demi-god at his feet. All three of his sons laying dead, pools of their own blood coloring the floor. So much wealth all around them, and in an instant, Phil had become the poorest person in the world.

A numb aching feeling in his chest opened, sucking everything he loved in until he was nothing but a shell of who he used to be.

Because all of the reasons he had for living lay dead on the floor before him.

**Author's Note:**

> ...
> 
> Leave a comment of what line hurt you the most.


End file.
